


Thanksgiving With Benedict

by DreadPirateWestley



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: Cooking, F/M, Food, Prompt Fill, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:59:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DreadPirateWestley/pseuds/DreadPirateWestley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Benedict cooks a Thanksgiving meal for his homesick American girlfriend.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thanksgiving With Benedict

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written to fill a cooking prompt at BCSF.

     It was late Thanksgiving morning, a fact mostly wasted on the whole of the UK, where you now lived and were currently employed. Work deadlines and the high price of airfare were keeping you away from home in America for the first time ever, and upon seeing your very abundant (and slightly embarrassing) tears over the thought, your lovely boyfriend had proved himself even lovelier by offering to cook a traditional meal for you. Seeing the chaos slowly building in his small kitchen, you were beginning to wonder if it was a good idea.

     He’d finally forbidden you from crossing the threshold that separated the dining area from the kitchen after you’d made one too many suggestions about his cooking technique. So you sat in there in silence, wearing your Jason Witten jersey (because Tony Romo’s performance of late had miffed you terribly, and because even though you couldn’t watch the Dallas Cowboys play today, like they did every Thanksgiving, you could still support them with your apparel) and drumming your fingers on the countertop that divided this area of his flat. Wonderful smells assaulted your nose, and you were very glad you hadn’t eaten a big breakfast, because lunch was going to be EPIC.

     Benedict was checking the turkey (he’d insisted on cooking it for real, when a pre-cooked one would have been fine with you) and giving it one last baste. Back when you’d still been allowed in the kitchen, the oven timer had read forty-five minutes to go, so there couldn’t be more than twenty minutes left of cooking time. You smiled as he closed the door, giving it a bump with his ass in those lovely, tight jeans you adored. (You wanted to tell him to check on the sweet potatoes, the marshmallows on top were probably brown by now, but he’d clearly forgotten they were in the oven too. You bit your tongue and decided to mention it in five minutes.) He searched for a place to stow away the oven mitts so he would remember where they were. He’d already misplaced them twice, and it wasn’t as though they blended in with the décor. They were twin space slugs, a bit of a gag gift you’d bought for him after he’d decided to try his hand at being Heston Blumenthal. He wasn’t quite sure what they were to begin with so you’d had to make him re-watch “The Empire Strikes Back.” After that he’d made a game of taking things out of the oven and screeching at you with them, like a pair of demented Muppets might. (What he really needed was a “Kiss the Cook” apron, but you knew he’d never wear it.)

     Oven mitts discarded, Ben pushed at his rolled up shirt sleeves and scratched his head in bewilderment, one hand on his hip. He did this every few minutes. His mouth suddenly formed an ‘O’ and he headed for the fridge. He emerged with the two pies you’d baked (dessert was the only area he’d let you handle so you’d made pumpkin, of course, and Tollhouse, a recipe from the back of an old bag of Nestle morsels) and moved swiftly with them to the side table. He glanced at you as he went by, winked, and turned on his heel to head back to the stove top. He removed the lid from the green beans, fanned away the steam in mock disgust, and gave them a stir, studying their color carefully. He checked the potatoes next (yes, you had to have sweet potatoes AND the regular kind) and surmising with a grin that they were ready for mashing, donned the twin slugs once again and drained them over the sink, wincing in your direction as steam wafted up from the hot water as it went down the drain. If he’d been wearing glasses, they would have fogged over.

     As he looked around for a good spot to get to work, you slowly pushed aside some things directly in front of you, and felt pleased when he came to stand opposite where you were sitting. You snatched up the stainless steel potato masher he’d set out earlier and immediately heard him growl at you. You sighed in resignation and handed it over, his fingers grazing yours quite deliberately as he took it from you. Returning to your bored stance of chin resting on hand, you observed as he measured out milk, butter, a good bit of pepper and salt, then set to murdering the poor tubers. Ben held the bowl with his left arm, a bit like you would a baby, and with his right hand twisted and pounded the bowl with uniform motions, moving the checkerboard plate down and around, attempting to devastate all the pieces evenly. You could see the muscles in his chest and shoulder through his terribly old and worn, mercifully half unbuttoned shirt, moving in concert with those long forearms and fingers. It was only the screwed up expression on his face that threw the picture out of balance, so that instead of needing to take him immediately to bed and remind yourself what those muscles could do, you just wanted to giggle at him.

     Potatoes properly mashed, Ben transferred them to a serving bowl, set them on the table and did a bit of a jerky dance on his way back to the oven. As he opened it, he gave you a cocky look that said, “See, I did not forget about the sweet potatoes!” Not burnt, but perhaps a little too brown, he marched them across to the table as well, then extracted a package of white rolls from the fridge as he passed (your family usually had the frozen, quickly baked kind, but these were as close as you could find) then put them in the oven to warm just as the timer for the turkey beeped. He did a quick double fist pump then, clearly pleased with his new found ability to coordinate cooking many things at once. He then bent and removed the gloriously brown bird from the oven carefully, placing it in front of you with a smug smile. It smelled divine, and you returned his smile with a look that said you were sorry for doubting him. His cheeks were flushed from the heat of the oven, his forehead beaded with sweat. You grabbed a napkin from the counter and reached across to mop his brow. You combed a couple of fingers through his curls, pushing them back from his forehead. He then took your hand in his still space slug oven mitt covered one, and kissed the palm gently, holding it against his face.

     “Green beans,” you whispered tenderly, the first words either of you had spoken in quite some time. He hissed through his teeth and snapped his fingers inside the oven mitt as he turned back to the stove top. He screeched one of the space slugs at you as you made to get up, so you sat back down and sighed heavily. You made a mental note to insist on carving the turkey yourself and to not let the bread burn - he’d taken the battery out of the smoke detector. All in all, though, Benedict had outdone himself. You watched him drain the beans and put them in a serving bowl, admiring his form as much as his desire to please you and make you feel at home.

     You really did have a lot to be thankful for.


End file.
